Destiny's Lifeline
by TheVelvetDusk
Summary: How to save the world in 5 simple steps (and also maybe fall in love along the way) according to Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan. Follows Wyatt's thoughts and development over the course of season one. {be prepared for a lot of introspective rambling from everyone's favorite soldier} (TFP)


_a/n: I just want everyone to know that I often have a typo issue when writing Rittenhouse...it accidentally comes out as "ROttenhouse" and it makes me laugh every time because they are rotten & I'm a geek like that. Laugh with me or at me, it's all fair game :) _

_The initial prompt (via timeless-fanfic-prompts) for this story: How to save the world in five simple steps_  
 _What it turned into once I got my hands on it: How to save the world in five simple steps (and also maybe fall in love along the way) according to Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan._

 _Lots of Wyatt-rambles here, so you might want to run for the hills if that's not your thing._

* * *

 _One : Assemble The Team_

Denise Christopher had to be out of her mind. Seriously, senior field agent or not, the woman was a few beers short of a six-pack.

It was all Wyatt could do to march himself off to his vehicle and get in without turning around and making an impetuous choice that would come back to bite him in the ass. He jammed his keys into the ignition and screeched out of the lot before he could go back to find Agent Christopher and tell her that they had the wrong soldier for this one.

He was no rookie in his field. At face value, this mission was easy, one he should be able to accomplish in his sleep really, but there were too many messy variables in his way. It was bad enough that both of his teammates were going to pose an immediate obstacle in pretty much any era of history due to nothing more than basic demographics and the profound prejudices that were woven so deeply into the fabric of their nation. But then to also send them out without an ounce of combat training or survival skills? It was out-and-out madness, and it was sure to get them all killed one way or another.

At least Rufus seemed to be a likable guy. That was more than Wyatt could say about Lucy Preston, though. God, was she going to be this difficult every time they worked together? The woman was a real piece of work. Was he really supposed to put up with this - the complaining about their clothing being so insignificantly inaccurate, snipping at him about his modern gun, criticizing his methods and parading around with all her pretentious insistence about doing things her way? Not to mention the fact that she had rushed headlong into danger by getting way too close to Garcia Flynn, making it nearly impossible for Wyatt to help her when she had needed it... _again_. He had enough on his plate without having to babysit their resident historian 24/7, but based on this first jump, she was going to require constant supervision.

And with that thought, the image of her white blouse gaping open _just enough_ between buttons to attract his attention was suddenly stamped across his mind, and he shook his head so hard that his truck nearly swerved into the passing lane. A furious horn blared into the night and Wyatt righted his course, but not without another uninvited vision of Lucy invading his memory. This time it was the memory of her smooth, bare back commanding his thoughts, and his body was all too quick to remind him that he'd been deprived of such sights for long enough to be considered neglectful torture.

"Damn it," he muttered, biting harshly into his lower lip as he drove, cranking the radio up to fill the silence and occupy his traitorous mind.

But it didn't work. He went on envisioning the rest of her - long legs, a pencil-thin waist, absurdly dark eyes fringed with thick lashes, glossy midnight curls that bobbed around her face as she spoke fervently. She was decidedly different than any woman he'd been with before, but that didn't stop him from seeing that she was unquestionably beautiful. Maybe even more so _because_ she was so different.

And so not an option, not even if he wanted her to be one. Which he didn't.

Not only would that be ten levels of screwed up on both a professional and a personal scale, but now was not the time to start looking at other women. Not when the answer to all of his questions was right in front of him at last.

He had access to a time machine. A real-life, goddamn time machine. He would almost believe that the whole thing was a product of a hangover-induced dream if not for the remaining nausea that roiled through him each time he thought of climbing in and out of the Lifeboat. Not even the worst of his hangovers could put him through the wringer like that.

Now more than ever, he had to focus on Jessica. He could change things. He could make this right, and not just by solving the mystery of who killed her, but by actually finding a way to prevent it from ever happening in the first place.

So he would cooperate for now. He would earn the respect of Agent Christopher, listen to the insight of Connor Mason, get to know Rufus Carlin, and even find a way to put up with little Miss Hoity-Toity Historian. He'd been through worse shit than slogging through a few decades of history with two defenseless civilians by his side. If he played his cards right and stuck it out, this would be it - his chance to literally go back in time and give Jessica the life she'd deserved.

* * *

 _Two : Identify The Objective  
_

He cleared out of Mason Industries as fast as his legs would carry him, feeling the repentant gazes of his teammates bouncing off the impenetrable wall of his retreating back with every step he took.

If he'd thought his Greg Brady suit had been uncomfortable, that was nothing compared to the pins and needles sensation that flitted up and down his spine now.

At his core, he was a simple guy. His _life_ might not be simple - hadn't been in quite some time, actually - but he himself was far from complicated. He loved his country, respected the ones who went before him to make it what it was today. That respect went much deeper when he considered one vet in particular, the man who had also been personally responsible for making Wyatt into the person he was today. He'd loved his wife even if he'd made a mess out of their relationship somewhere along the way, and he'd do anything to go back and have a second chance with her. He had a deep fondness for Texas even if he'd decided long ago that he wouldn't ever willingly return to his hometown in this lifetime. He enjoyed a good beer, and enjoyed it even more on the rare occasion that he had the chance to knock it back while catching a decent game on ESPN. He felt at home in a bar, a fact that had more to do with endless nights out with his buddies from the military than it does with the actual consumption of alcohol - although that part doesn't suck either. And he got a kick out of messing with his friends both new and old, giving them a hard time and riling them up whenever he could. He also knew that he'd do anything for those same friends in the blink of an eye, would go to unbelievable lengths to spare them from pain or harm.

He was the same professionally. If he was going to do a job, he appreciated a simple, well-outlined mission. When he'd first been brought in on the Mason assignment, everything had been presented in clear-cut terms. Garcia Flynn's failure was his primary objective; he was to stop Flynn in whatever way he deemed necessary, end of story.

Now of course the unexpected addition of a damn time machine - as well as a nagging historian who challenged his every move - made things a lot _less_ simple, but even then, Wyatt knew he was up for the task.

Or at least that had been the case until the intangible whispers from the shadows had crescendoed into a fever-pitch roar that surrounded him on all sides, the sound of it slowly becoming crisp and discernible and inescapable as those three syllables solidified into one terrifying name - _Rittenhouse_.

And if he was being honest - really gut-wrenchingly, spit you in the face honest - he was more pissed with himself than he was with anyone else.

He'd somehow taken it upon himself to tack on far more meaning onto his objective, and that was even before this Rittenhouse thing got added into the mix. These people, his team...they had sunk into his skin without his consent. He'd elevated them above the given orders, put more emphasis on the act of protecting Lucy and Rufus - both physically and otherwise - than he did on the assignment of lodging a bullet into Garcia Flynn. He deferred to Lucy's judgement when it went against all of his instincts to do so. He'd covered for Rufus after they got back from Vegas, passing off a flimsy fib to diffuse the heat of Agent Christopher's inquiries after they'd failed to stop Flynn yet again.

And they'd done the same for him, didn't they? They'd taken care of him when he'd been shot in 1865; they put their necks out for him big time after the Alamo, boldly going up against Homeland on his behalf after they'd learned that he was being dismissed from the assignment.

So how had they blindsided him with their divided allegiances now, more than five jumps in? They were freakin' civilians, and bumbling ones at that. He liked them well enough - or at least _had_ liked them well enough before this shit hit the fan - but no amount of bonding could convince him that either of his teammates were aptly suited for the work at hand. It wasn't their fault. This was just way over their heads...hell, it was way over _his_ head, so of course the two noncombatants serving at his side had to be that much more out of their own depths, right?

Or so he had thought until now. Wyatt felt as if he'd been walking around with foggy, blurred vision over the course of those first five jumps, making assumptions and half-assed conclusions each time they answered the call to go save the world. The events of '72 had been like putting on a pair of glasses and finally seeing everything come into focus for the first time. Maybe he'd pegged them wrong from the start. To think that Rufus had been recording their conversations all along, reporting their thoughts and actions back to a secret organization..? And then there was Lucy, sneaking off to have sidebar conversations with Flynn over this alleged journal of hers...

Wyatt ignored the weird prickle that told him he was - quite irrationally - more angry with Lucy than he was with Rufus, because God knows that the last thing he needed was to examine _that_ little discrepancy too closely.

A distant argument with Jess rumbled through his memory, stupid allegations of flirting and jealousy and secrecy, and he promptly shut it off, because that had nothing to do with this and he was officially losing his mind if he'd made some sort of link between the two situations. Lucy owed him nothing. So what if she'd been withholding information from him? It wasn't personal. None of this was.

But no matter how much he sought to distract himself through the lonely hours that follow his glacial exit from headquarters, he couldn't quit assessing and reassessing the pieces of this shattered puzzle. Even if Rufus was being blackmailed into the act of recording their jumps and Lucy had been totally manipulated by Flynn's demented head games, where did that leave the three of them? What was the actual objective here? What if Rittenhouse was real and their existence was far more dangerous than anything that Garcia Flynn could dream up?

Wyatt tossed and turned fitfully throughout the night, because God help him, there was a small but persistent internal voice that said Flynn had been telling him the truth in that hotel room back in Washington.

* * *

 _Three : Take Time To Regroup After Everything Goes To Hell_

If he'd ever been grateful for a glass of whiskey and a hot meal, this was it. He'd eaten so fast that he was sure to have indigestion later, but what the hell? The alternative was far more bleak. If Wyatt wasn't here throwing back appetizers and drinks with his teammates, he'd be following Rufus' suggestion instead, which meant settling down in 1754 and learning how to farm the land in colonial Pennsylvania.

As ridiculous as it sounded, he also knew that on some level he could have handled it. His grandpa had taught him a thing or two about how to reap what you sow, and the man had certainly been a big advocate on all the benefits of good clean country living. So naturally Wyatt would have found a way to survive, and of course he would have protected Lucy and Rufus through whatever means necessary...

 _Holy shit_ , he would have married her, wouldn't he? What other choice would they have had?

He glanced up from what remained of his second drink and saw that Lucy was watching him curiously from across the booth, a half-eaten Chocodile dangling from her fingertips. "Aren't you going to try one of these?"

The corner of his mouth lifted in response, and he was unaccountably grateful to see that their debate of free will versus fate seemed to have eased the worry lines from around her eyes. "Is it as weird as I'm expecting it to be?"

"Weirder." She laughed then, a sound he hadn't heard nearly enough of while they'd been stranded in the 1700s. "But honestly? I don't hate it."

Wyatt chuckled along with her as she pushed a second Chocodile across the table, and he took it readily, his fingers brushing against hers for a tantalizing millisecond. His eyes honed in on her ring finger as her hand slid away, noticing that the impressively brilliant diamond from her supposed fiancé was missing tonight.

Did the colonists wear engagement rings in 1754? Probably not. But he doubted Lucy would have cared one way or another. And then his daydream was back in full-force, rolling along like a movie reel on an old-time filmstrip. There he was, living off the land in a small farmhouse with Lucy as his wife, laboring for long hours under the sun all day, coming inside to find her in his bed each night, her wispy hands on his shoulders as he sought out every inch of her with nothing to guide him but a narrow spill of moonlight...

"Round three, everyone," Rufus announced with a flourish, instantly snapping Wyatt back to the present as he plunked three drinks onto the table and took his chair on the end. "Don't tell me I missed Wyatt's first bite of delectable Chocodile goodness?!"

"No, he's taking his time...working up the nerve, I think," Lucy teased as she reached for her new glass of wine.

Wyatt rolled his eyes, but his grin was undeniable. Maybe the exhaustion of their last jump was catching up with him or perhaps the alcohol was working overtime, but he felt inexplicably lighter than usual, the familiar storm clouds of grief and guilt feeling far more distant and subdued at the moment.

"I would have tried it by now if it weren't for the two of you constantly harassing me about it."

Rufus laughed and took a pull of his beer, but Lucy just shook her head with a solemn look, some unspoken question lingering in her gaze as she eyed him from her side of the table. He wasn't sure if she was the one who was affecting him or if it was the other way around, but damn it if he wasn't sensing some kind of strange crackle in the air every time their eyes met tonight.

Had she somehow figured out where he'd gone to in his head a moment ago? Or better yet, had she gone there too? Had she also realized what would have happened between them if Rufus hadn't been able to get them home this time? And more importantly, was she also far more okay with the idea than she had any right to be?

Wyatt shoved the whole damn Chocodile in his mouth, causing both Rufus and Lucy to erupt with laughter and disbelief. He shrugged and winked nonchalantly as he took his time chewing around the too-sweet treat, but was careful to aim that wink indistinctly in the space between his two companions.

Those storm clouds of grief and guilt may not be circling too close tonight, but that didn't mean he was off the hook. In fact, he welcomed them with open arms most of the time, because who was he without them? He had to grieve Jessica. Her life had been brutally cut short, and if he wasn't constantly aware of that fact, than who was? She couldn't be forgotten, least of all by him. And the guilt...God, that was his alone. He wasn't the only one who was miserable with the affliction of living in a world without her, but no one else could have prevented it like he could have, a burden that he would shoulder for the rest of his days.

Until he had the chance to set it all right, to redeem himself and bring Jess home, he had to remember what was real. The grief was real. The guilt was real. The power of choice was real, far more real than the myth of destiny. His marriage had been real, and it would be real again someday. Everything else was just a fantasy. A temporary distraction, a meaningless daydream.

He had to repeat that to himself every time Lucy's eyes caught his from above her swirling wine glass - this was nothing but a fleeting, hazy night in a bar to blow off a little steam until Flynn made his next move.

And with Jess on her way back to him, that was all it could ever be.

* * *

 _Four : Be Willing To Pull Your Head Out Of Your Ass When Necessary_

Wyatt gritted his teeth as he shifted into park, overlooking the appointed site for their covert meeting with a doubtful look. Maybe everything seemed flimsier after too many hours in the dimness of an off-the-grid jail cell, but was this really the best thing Agent Christopher could come up with?

Who was he to criticize, though? It wasn't like he'd been around to come up with a better alternative.

He was the first to admit that he was out of sorts, at the end of his proverbial rope. There was a clanging alarm in his head telling him it was time to take a major step back out of his own head. It wasn't often that he felt this way, so consumed with shadowy thoughts and disordered emotions that he could barely see straight, but he did know that the results could be disastrous if he didn't overcome this mood quickly.

This was how he'd felt when he saw Jess flirting with her ex in that bar in San Diego. This was what killed her - his own careless temper roaming freely, going off-course and unchecked. Sure, someone else had committed the actual murder, but Wyatt might as well have been the one holding the rope around her neck. He'd been a slave to his own rotten disposition, lacked the self-discipline to pull himself back, and her life had been the collateral damage of his inexcusable mistake.

He'd told himself over and over again that he'd rather throw himself off a cliff than make the same mistake a second time, but maybe the harm was already done. Lucy, who had been through God knows what in the last several days after he'd chosen to go gallivanting through time without her, was already suffering the consequences. He couldn't stop seeing the crestfallen disappointment on her face, hearing the tremor of tears in her voice as if it were on a loop in his head. She'd done everything within her power to keep him on this team and what had he done with that gesture? Thrown it right back in her face as if that act - and the person behind it - had meant nothing to him, a notion that couldn't be further from the truth.

And now her father was involved in all of this? As if it wasn't enough that she'd already lost her sister, now she was processing a whole new level of devastating confusion over whatever the hell was going on between Rittenhouse and her family tree. And she was processing that without him, because he'd betrayed her too, hadn't he? He'd put on a blatant show of choosing himself and his grief over her as she sat there on those steps and _just took it_. God, she'd even planned to go along with him to '83, as if she could somehow convince him that she wasn't wrecked over the very idea that he was planning to do something that would drive an irrevocable wedge between them. Her heart had been right there in her eyes, the pain that he'd put there spelled out plain and simple for anyone to see.

He'd never had any trouble reading her, a fact that usually caused a baffling surge of warmth in his gut, but that night in her mother's house he'd wished with his entire being to turn it off, to block those jarring emotions from view.

It was a lost cause. Not only had he felt every inch of her torment in that moment, but those feelings had trailed after him ever since, creeping into his every thought and action. How had she become so real to him? She was supposed to stay in the neat little box he'd designed for her from their first encounter - pretty but high-strung, knowledgeable but hardheaded, passionate but exasperating. He'd treated her as nothing but a means to an end, a stepping stone to his ultimate happiness. So what did it mean if that illusive concept of ultimate happiness had just dissolved before his eyes, leaving him with nothing at all, not even his friends? There was a real chance that he'd done a whole lot more than fail his wife. He'd also detonated his current happiness, hadn't he? He'd overlooked Rufus and Lucy, dismissed the levity and reliability of these new friendships, and he didn't even have anything to show for it.

The wind whipped around him, enveloping him in a heavy dose of cold, briny air as he approached the abandoned Oakland warehouse, but he felt none of it. The hollow fear on the inside - fear that Rufus and Lucy wouldn't be able to look him in the eye after what he'd done - was far more chilling than any cold front that could blow through the Bay Area.

And even worse, what if they were different? There was a very real, very horrifying chance that they wouldn't be the same versions of his teammates anymore. They'd jumped without him. As much as he was dreading the idea of Lucy hating him for what he'd done in 1983, he would take all of it - tears, yelling, the silent treatment, _anything_ \- before he could even think about dealing with a Lucy who didn't know him.

The tiny sliver of his brain that was still functioning rationally told him that Agent Christopher would have warned him of something that awful, but what if it was more subtle than a comprehensive mind wipe? What if this timeline was just different enough that his team still remembered the asshole soldier who'd gotten himself stuffed in a black site but had no real relationship to him beyond that?

He dragged himself inside with every ounce of his defeat, shame, and unease sloping through him, but with a rapid clicking of Lucy's shoes against the concrete floor, he was at least able to shed the unease. Her breath quaked against him as she threw her arms around his shoulders, her lithe body colliding into him as she whispered in sheer relief, "you're okay..."

His hands fell against her back automatically, latching onto her with unspeakable reverence. Her cheek pressed against his, nothing but softness and compassion emanating from her as she held him, and his eyes flickered closed with the enormity of her forgiveness. He was stunned, struck speechless and immobile for what felt like a short eternity.

But when she did release him at length, he was sure he would have tugged her right back into his chest if it weren't for Rufus and Agent Christopher standing just a few feet away.

Their meeting was radically different from any other strategizing session. There was no technology, no extra agents or techs, no Lifeboat, and most importantly, no solid ground for any of them to stand on. There was also no hiding the universal anxiousness of what they faced now that everything had been turned on its head. Rittenhouse had invaded their home turf and nothing felt certain at this point.

But from where Wyatt stood, that wasn't true. Not by a long shot. Looking around, seeing their faces again after what felt like a lifetime apart, he knew that the three of them were a sure thing, and that would be enough to get them through this. It was time to really give this mission his all. He owed it to them to fix this, and fix it they would.

And when he said that he was meant to protect the both of them, told them that they would find a way to fight back against Rittenhouse, he wouldn't have been surprised if they called him on his shit and thrown him out on his ass.

Instead Lucy turned to him, somber and composed despite it all, and looked to him with far more confidence than he'd ever warranted. "How?"

They stayed in that warehouse for as long as Rufus and Lucy could remain without their absences becoming too glaring, talking through the details over and over again until the game plan was clear. And even then, Lucy was struggling to look convinced, a fact that she couldn't quite mask from Wyatt no matter how she tried.

He pulled her aside just as she was preparing to leave, his fingers catching the sleeve of her coat before she could get too far. "You're still not sure about this."

She kept her eyes cast toward the floor, a nervous wrinkle appearing across her forehead. "I...I'm not the best liar. I'm afraid they'll know something is off from the second I walk back into Mason."

"C'mon, Lucy," he said with a forced laugh, shoving down the paralyzing thought of what could happen to her if she didn't pull this off. "I've seen you in action, remember? Lying is our number one means of survival on those jumps, and you're usually the first one to start spinning some crazy tale to cover our asses."

"That's different. I'm not really lying then, I'm just recalling statistics, mannerisms, a way of life...all things that I've been teaching and writing about for years now. This... _this_ is not something I'm prepared for at all." Her voice was small, dark eyes rising to capture his gaze.

He solidified his grip on her arm, stepping closer with a steady look. "You can do this. You just have to tell yourself it's the same. It's all just pretending."

"I don't know, Wyatt..."

"Okay, maybe it will help if you practice a little bit," he answered with a shrug. "Go ahead, tell me something that's absolutely false. Anything you can think of, doesn't matter. I'll tell you if it sounds lame."

Her lips twitched into a meager smile. "Like I could ever pull one over on you..."

He tried not to let himself feel too flattered by that statement. "Just try me."

Lucy sighed, rubbed a hand across her eyes, and then eventually straightened with an expression that warned him of impending trouble. "I didn't miss you at all while you were gone."

Wyatt was pretty sure his pulse flatlined for several seconds as her words sank in. "Uh...say it again, just more...offhandedly. Like you don't even know if it's worth mentioning."

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, I didn't really miss you at all while you were gone."

"Good," he murmured, his hand drifting down along her sleeve until the skin of her palm was sliding against his fingers. "You don't have to make your face look so blank when you lie...it's almost like tipping your hand, you know? Like it's too noticeable that you're working to be expressionless."

"Okay, one more time then." Her fingers curled around his, locking his hand in place against hers. "I didn't really miss you at all while you were gone."

It took him a moment to regain his breath as he stared down at her. "Yeah...that was really good, Lucy."

The pretense faltered, then broke. Her lashes beat together wildly to hide the glossy shimmer in her eyes. The implicit declaration hung so profoundly in the air between them, weighing against his lungs to the point where he was sure he couldn't take it any longer, and it was abundantly obvious that she wasn't doing much better herself, so he wrapped her up in an oppressive hug and held on for dear life.

"I missed you too," he whispered into her hair.

She just nodded, arms tightening around his middle until she was forced to leave for Mason Industries without him.

* * *

 _Five : Have A Little Faith_

"Wyatt, do you trust me?"

A bolt of adrenaline shook through him, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his stomach threatened to rise up to his throat, but he did as she asked. He loosened his grip and dropped a reluctant hand to his side. Everything inside of him screamed against that action, but the pleading message written in her steadfast gaze was somehow louder.

Did he trust her? Yes, a million times yes, of course he trusted her. His trust for Flynn was infinitely thinner, but even then, he still conceded to whatever plan Lucy had up her sleeve. His fingers twitched around his gun, the temptation to kill his target still fluctuating along his nervous system, but between Lucy's imploring eyes and the echo of Rufus' words from 1882 - _maybe killing shouldn't be an everyday thing, maybe it should be harder for the good guys_ \- Wyatt knew he'd been overruled. Truthfully, he felt some relief in that realization.

But a few hours and a handful of miles later, and that relief was deader than dead.

"You've trusted me for this long," she petitioned him again, this request even more unfathomable than the last, "I just need you to do it a little longer."

How could she say that? How could she assume that his hesitation had anything to do with trusting her? How many times did he have to prove that he had nothing but uncompromising faith in her? Obviously it wasn't his faith in _her_ that was in question.

The slightest sheen of tears surfaced in her warm brown eyes, but a gentle smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, forming a delicate dimple in her cheek as she tried to assure him that she'd be okay.

Wyatt's feet were unnaturally heavy. He turned back once, stared at her with his heart thrashing like a wild animal against the cage of his ribs, and then he climbed into the Lifeboat with all the enthusiasm of a man headed for the firing squad. He buckled himself in with his eyes sealed shut, hating himself for how much the sight of her empty seat unsettled his insides.

But true to her word, she was back in 2017 less than an hour after they'd left her behind, waltzing into Mason Industries without a hair out of place, still looking every bit the part of a classic leading lady straight off the set of _Leave it to Beaver_ or _The_ _Donna Reed Show_.

"You're here," he said in whoosh of a breathless sigh, gathering her to him without preamble.

"I'm here," she confirmed against his shoulder. "Just like I said I would be."

He shook his head, trying not to dwell on the stirring feeling of her hair dancing over his cheek.

"Time travel is a finicky little bastard, Lucy. You know that better than anyone. Not to mention Flynn was a part of the equation..." he grumbled back with his arms still fastened around her.

She leaned away, her eyebrows crinkling together as she regarded him with an uncertain look. "If it worked...if Ethan did what he told me he would, then we'll be done with time travel and done with Flynn. Fingers crossed, right?"

Wyatt squeezed her arm before taking a step back. "I don't need to cross my fingers. I believe in you."

Lucy fought a smile, looking down as his praise washed over her face. "Thank you for letting me do this. I know...I know you were worried..."

He wasn't sure what to say to that, and the impulse to hug her again came over him so strongly that he simply couldn't resist it. And that was how Agent Christopher found them a moment later, nothing but a swaying tangle of arms.

"Lucy, you're back," she called as she strode down the corridor. "What's our next step? And where's Flynn?"

And so the search for Ethan Cahill commenced. Wyatt could feel his assignment with Homeland winding down bit by bit, but as each piece of the final picture fell into place, he found himself persistently glued to Lucy's side just when he should have been easing away from her. Visiting her grandfather, rooting through his dusty storage room, chauffeuring her between Cahill's place and Mason Industries - he did all of this without being asked, and was sure to keep her within arm's reach at all times. He told himself that it was born of nothing other than a concern for her safety. Rittenhouse was still a largely unknown and unpredictable organization, and they had to be less than thrilled with Lucy's hand in their demise, so it only made sense that Wyatt stayed close to her as they worked together to wrap up the loose ends of the mission.

But there was only so much he could do to prolong the inevitable, and judging from Lucy's shifting demeanor, that realization had dawned on her too. They could joke about it all they wanted, talk about staying in contact like it was some casual thing, but he was sure that his cavalier smirk was anything but convincing. He didn't want to go back to Pendleton. He didn't want to go anywhere that wouldn't include her.

And with her face nudging softly into his shoulder and his cheek pressed into her raven hair, he knew that this mission had gone far beyond saving the world. Sure, they'd put a stop to Flynn's killing spree through time, preserved history as well as they could along the way, and intercepted Rittenhouse from the inside thanks to Ethan Cahill, but quite unexpectedly, Wyatt realized that something else had been saved. _Someone_ else.

He drew a quiet, shaky breath. Inhaled the smell of her, devoted himself to the feel of her in his arms.

It was simple, really. Lucy Preston had saved him. She'd tripped her way into his life, gave him hell as often as she deemed necessary, and lifted him right out of his bottomless pit of despair just when he'd been sure that he was stuck there indefinitely. She was the lifeline out of his self-destruction, a merciful wake up call, the kick in the ass he'd so desperately needed. She was the one to get him over the ultimate hump, the reason why he kept on fighting after the devastating setback of failing to bring Jess back.

Before he knew it, he was stumbling his way though several misguided and half-baked assurances, all of which he began to recognize with some delay as words that Lucy had already said, words that he was echoing back to her. "Maybe we do need to stop trying to fix the past and start looking at the present...Maybe I do need to be open to the possibilities."

Her voice was low, nearly fragile, as she inched closer. "Possibilities of what?"

His breath staggered as his brain caught up with his mouth, suddenly feeling every inch of that reckless hothead reputation now that he'd spoken so quickly without thinking this through at all.

"I don't know," he answered, chuckling dumbly at his own foolishness, "I just know I'm not really ready to say goodbye yet."

He couldn't manage more than a halfhearted laugh at Mason's interruption a moment later, couldn't even bring himself to properly speak a parting word as she excused herself to go take care of something.

Because _holy hell_ , he had fallen for her, hadn't he? He'd learned to trust her, to loosen the reigns and let her take control, had even let her talk him out of shooting frickin' Garcia Flynn when he finally had the chance. Who else would ask him to do such a thing? And better yet, who else could actually convince him that it was the right move?

And it was so much more than that. He'd talked to her about Grandpa Sherwin and his deadbeat dad, opened up about his guilt over Jess, and hell, he'd _kissed_ her without even thinking twice about it. More importantly, his entire body had lit up like the National Christmas Tree when their lips had met. It didn't matter what excuse he came up with for why he'd done it, because there was no cover story that could explain how it had felt to kiss her, no rational dismissal for how it had charged through him like a ricocheting bombshell.

There was also no cover story for how much he'd thought about that kiss ever since their night together in Arkansas.

 _Hot damn, indeed._

Once he was sure that she was gone, Wyatt snuck off to a quiet corner of the facility and sat down with his head spinning in every conceivable direction.

His faith in Lucy as a teammate was unshakable. His faith in Lucy as...something more? It didn't take much soul-searching to know that he could trust her with that part of him too. The real question was whether or not he had any faith left in _himself_ when it came to those possibilities.

Given everything he knew of Lucy, however, he was fairly certain that she had more than enough faith for the both of them.


End file.
